


Bad Omens 2169

by ChubbyHornedEquine



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark Aziraphale (Good Omens), Discorporation (Good Omens), Dom/sub Undertones, Feral Crowley (Good Omens), Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Possessive Aziraphale (Good Omens), Possessive Crowley (Good Omens), Sexual Tension, So Much Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28271256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChubbyHornedEquine/pseuds/ChubbyHornedEquine
Summary: A semi-futuristic, pseudo-magicpunk enemies-to-lovers tale where discorporation is the name of the game and there's no room for paltry things like love....or is there
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO FRIENDS!!
> 
> Ahhh I'm SO EXCITED to bring this fic to you! The Author's notes are gonna be just a liiiittle long here as they contain important info on content warnings and such, so please bear with me.
> 
> The Title: I have Lydia to thank for Bad Omens! And many many others in the GPH server for just going absolutely feral with me over this. This fic is a bit futuristic, a bit...magicpunk? A bit grunge? I don't honestly know. What I do know is that it is, in many ways, a love letter to all my favorite sci-fi that I grew up with. (At least in name.) All our favorite stories set in the far and distant future with ridiculous titles that we took oh-so-seriously. Space: 1999, Earth 2, Babylon 5, Cyberpunk 2077 (hence today's release date) are y'all seeing a pattern here? I love sci-fi stuff as much as I do fantasy and I don't think we see a ton of it in this fandom, I hope my meager contribution is accepted. (There's no space ships but who knows, maybe in my not-too-distant future I'll write a space station AU...)
> 
> Why the year 2169? I wanted something in the future but not too soon and not too far. (Also it's _nice_ ) ((Also it just sounds SO RIDICULOUS. It is a _ridiculous title_. No one in their right mind is going to take this seriously and I get _such unbridled glee_ out of that.))
> 
> Now,
> 
> First, **NOTE THE ARCHIVE WARNING.** Graphic Depictions of Violence. That's right my friends. These two discorporate each other. A lot. And on the page. The fic is rated M for violence (and language, oh my) and will very likely go up to E!
> 
> Second, Aziraphale is Azren in this. (Idk sometimes people get thrown by a name change.) Also this features a "dark" Aziraphale. I put dark in quotations because he's not evil and he's not fallen. It's more like....he's the same level of asshole all the other angels are lol. He has a job to do and he does it and if that means flooding the Earth or smiting a few demons then so be it. It's actually been an interesting challenge so far playing around with this version of Aziraphale while still keeping him recognizable (and hopefully lovable).
> 
> Thirth, I will include specific content warnings on the nature of the discorporation happening in each chapter in the end notes so if there's one method that might be more problematic for you than another, you can have a scroll down and access that information.
> 
> Foursthnd, I really really hope you enjoy this fic. It's been running rampant in my head for months. (And if you don't, it's not your cup of tea, don't worry! I've got some softer stuff coming up in the queue.) I feel like I say this with every fic but every time it's true: this is going to be very different from any of the other fics I've written so far.
> 
> Fifthstenth, As always, I promise a happy ending <3.
> 
> Please leave comments, they very literally keep me going and are such an encouragement. (Plus I want to know your thoughts!)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \------

_In 4004 BC, Heaven and Hell made an arrangement..._

Azren knew the moment the demon started slithering up his wall. The tell-tale reek of brimstone and sulfur, the hum of other, of _evil_. He'd missed it the first time, somehow, in the garden, and the demon had gotten to the humans. Now they were marching across the sand, hand-in-hand.

He would let the demon get close, he decided. Let him think he didn't notice his presence. Then he would smite him with perfect, righteous fury.

Only, the demon made no attempt to sneak up on him. Instead he shifted from slithering snake into a vaguely human shape and let out a dramatic sigh.

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon."

Azren looked at him like he'd lost his mind.

"I said--"

"I _heard_ you. The nerve." His hands balled into fists, divinity crackling through the air around him.

"Whoa whoa whoa," the demon cried, clambering back and up onto the wall's edge, "you can't! There's a truce on!"

"What?"

The demon cupped a hand around his ear as if listening for something.

Azren kept his eyes on him but let his focus shift. He heard the rustle of leaves in the wind, the flutter of his feathers on another plane, and just below that was the light and airy echo of strings. Humans would call them harps. It was so delicate in comparison to the blaring trumpet that had called them to war.

“See? Truce.”

“Why? Especially after what you’ve done?”

“What _I’ve_ done? Haven’t done anything! What about what _you’ve_ done, hmm?”

“I’ve only done my job. See to the humans’ wants and needs.”

He laughed, “That’s a nice loophole you’ve found yourself.”

“Answer my question.”

“Hmm?”

The demon was leaning over, peering down the wall. Azren fought the urge to shove him.

“Why is there a truce?”

“Right, that. My bosses are talking to your bosses about some sort of arrangement.”

“What kind of arrangement?”

“I’unno,” he shrugged, “not in the meeting, am I? Up here with you.”

“Yes, why is that?”

“Well, s’a nice view, innit?”

“Hmm.”

The demon had turned away from him again. Clearly he had no sense of self-preservation. He’d settled fully on the edge of the wall, knees up, resting his chin on them as he looked out at the world around them.

His hair was quite red.

And long.

Another disadvantage in a fight. Why, _why_ was there a truce? Here was this demon he could rid the world of once and for all. So many ways he could kill him. A push off the wall would result in a discorporation, without a doubt. He looked thin and scrawny, snapping that long neck of his would be so easy. He probably wouldn’t even need both hands to do it.

Azren was still going over all the ways he could discorporate the demon in front of him when the first drops of rain fell. He hadn’t noticed it until the man on the wall yelped, smacking at his leg and nearly toppling over the edge. He smacked at his leg a few more times and then his hands and then seemed to notice something and settle.

“Oh,” he said quietly, “I guess this one doesn’t burn.”

Ah.

“Still. Not my cup of tea,” he hopped off the wall. “You look like you’d enjoy tea.”

There he went again, babbling about things that weren’t here yet. Balloons and lead and tea. Why did he know so much about all of that? Why fill his head with useless human-things? Is that what demons did down there?

“Well I’m off, see ya around.”

“Wait,” Azren said, “what’s your name?” The music of the truce was still going but it would end eventually and when it did he would find this demon who dared to perch on his wall and he would smite him.

“Crawly,” he said. Then he did something inexplicable. He _smiled_.

Azren scoffed and turned away. He had a hole in the wall he needed to repair.

“And your name?”

He didn’t respond.

“See you around, angel!”

—

The truce lasted for several years while the details were figured out. It seemed the demon Crawly had invented something new. Temptation they were calling it. He wasn’t fond of that, had negative connotations it did. She wanted to take a bite. She’d asked to take a bite! Wasn’t his tree, he’d said. Couldn’t tell her yes or no, technically.

Anyway, turned out not following the Almighty’s vague and boring rules had consequences.

Nooo, the Lords of Hell had said during the meeting, ruffling their soot-stained wings, really?

And these consequences, the archangels pressed on, had an effect on a human’s soul. Bad in this case, but sometimes good. They could be won over, it seemed. Securing souls for either side would strengthen their numbers whenever the next war rolled around. It was on the calendar, for sure, only no one knew when.

Here was where it got tricky. Eventually there would be millions of the humans puttering about the Earth. Now, upstairs didn’t think it particularly fair that downstairs got the first go of this system before anyone knew it was a thing. Tempting not one but two humans. This put them in the lead. Hardly seemed fair.

Fair, the demons pointed out, was not in their job description.

These sorts of tit-for-tats were why the meeting, and thus the truce, lasted for so long.

The angels wanted the demons to concede the next attempt to them, to re-balance the playing field.

The demons told the angels some _very_ imaginative things they could do with their halos.

_Somewhere on Earth Crawly was playing in the sand with a toddler._

They didn’t see the point, you see, in giving up the next round when the round after that would just be the same thing. It would simply go back and forth tirelessly.

What if it didn’t, though?

Oh?

What if, they waited? What if they didn’t spend forever chasing after humans to tempt them here or there, little things? What if they waited for a moment when it would have the most effect? When the human was truly on the line, on the edge, could go either way really. Then they could have an honest go of it. Each side gets a chance to influence.

Well now wait, how would they know when a soul was ready? Was teetering?

Eh, they could make a department for that. Monitor it.

So the angels would know first, what happened to fair?

Thought demons didn’t care about fair.

_Somewhere on Earth Azren discovered tea. He rather liked it. He wasn’t sure why that discovery felt like it meant something more than it did. Or why he wanted to tell someone. He couldn’t imagine who._

Alright fine, there’s a department, in neutral territory, that monitors the souls. Both sides get the information and have a go at it.

First come, first serve then?

Like Hell they would give up without a fight.

They were welcome to give it their best shot.

So fighting for the chance to influence the soul was allowed. Winner takes all.

Except they didn’t, did they? There would be other chances, other pivotal moments for the same soul.

Neither side would discover that until a few centuries into the process but them’s the breaks.

That was that, then. All sorted.

The rules of the arrangement, as they were calling it: each side would provide an equal number of people to create the soul monitoring department, which would be separate from heaven and hell, no sides, and would provide information when it was ready, simultaneously, to both upstairs and downstairs. How Heaven and Hell used that information once it was received was up to them.

Heaven, for its part, invented what the humans would call guardian angels. Heaven liked to call them avenging angels. What, exactly, they were avenging was up to debate. The running theory was that very first temptation which had tipped the balance.

Both titles were utterly ridiculous, the new members of the new neutral territory whispered amongst themselves.

It should be noted that the truce remained in effect while the department was created. So the angels and demons of this new territory wouldn’t fight. And when the truce ended, they continued on not fighting, having already worked together for some time and finding no reason to.

It should be further noted that _no one_ thought this to be indicative of, or applicable to, anything on a larger scale.

Pity that.

There was never any specification on discorporation versus permanent ending.

The angels could smite the demons, and often did. But the demons had their own means of killing angels. Neither side offered to make it a written rule on the off chance that _they_ were on the losing end of a fight.

This is what we call a loophole.

—

_In 1922 an angel and a demon made an arrangement…_

The prohibition almost made his job too easy. Today's target was the owner of a speakeasy who was having a bit of a crisis. On the one hand, he could quit this business, close up shop, take the money he had made so far and do some good with it. On the other, he could cut corners with his distilling process, which would probably lead to some sick patrons, possibly some deaths, but he'd make even more money. Crowley's job was to tempt him into the latter, of course.

He knew it wouldn't be hard. Greed was an easy one. Then again so was lust. And wrath. And ok, yeah, they were all a little easy.

Thing was humans were kind of the worst, weren't they?

They were also kind of amazing.

Except he had to do his job. Because doing his job meant staying on Earth and out of leaky, smelly, over-crowded Hell. But doing his job meant ruining lives and destroying a bit more of what made Earth so beautiful to begin with.

It was fucked.

Still.

He'd put on his best suit and his best lipstick and his best heels and he'd arrived at the location a few minutes early. Because that was the polite thing to do. If the job was a bit easier, if it required less finesse, he would have called dibs, went in, did it, and got out before any angel showed up. But he was going to have to take his time with this one, throw in some flirting, and the last thing he wanted was an angel showing up in the middle of that.

Fifteen minutes after the job’s start time and there was still no angel. That was alright. Sometimes they didn't even show. Crowley wasn't sure what their criteria was for a soul to be considered worth the trouble but it seemed a high bar indeed if he went by the number of no-shows.

He made his way inside, all smiles and winks and casual touches. It didn't take much convincing to steal the owner away to the back storage area for a more private discussion. They were leaning against a rack of dusty wine bottles, Crowley with one arm hooked over his shoulders, a hand on his chest as he whispered about the cost of shipping and bribery to get the good stuff in when there were more than enough bootleggers upstate that could get the job done just as well. Maybe not _just_ as well, but who would be able to tell, really? These patrons weren't exactly _connoisseurs_. They wanted good music and good company and good alcohol and he could certainly provide two out of three. Save the good stuff, Crowley tapped a painted finger nail against one of the wine bottles, for the really important blokes. The ones he actually did need to impress.

The owner nodded along, gaze locked on Crowley's lips for most of the conversation, when it didn't stray a bit lower that is.

Really it was going as well as could be expected until a pointed throat clear snapped both of their attention toward the entrance.

There stood a man in a suit much too nice to mark him as a patron. The light of the storage was dim and the light of the hall behind him only served to cast his face in shadows.

"Bit busy here, friend," Crowley said.

The man came closer, "We were to meet outside, I believe?"

"Oh shit." This was the angel that hadn't bothered to show.

"Look," the owner said, extricating himself from Crowley's arms, "He didn’t mention a, I didn’t know, I don't wanna get in the middle of some lover's quarrel. So, just, you two figure it out, don't make a mess or a scene, and we'll be alright. I'm going back upstairs."

"Of course," the angel said, "I'll be along shortly. I have some business to discuss with you."

Crowley scoffed.

"Uhh yeah, sure. Right. Like I said, no funny business." And then he disappeared down the hall.

“Was that _really_ necessary? Couldn’t we just call this one mine?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“You’re late!”

“I was given the job rather last minute, couldn’t be helped. Shall we?”

He groaned, “I really don’t want to mess up this suit.”

“Then forfeit.”

“You show up late and have the nerve to tell me to forfeit? Un-bloody-believ…wait. I know you.” He snapped his fingers, bringing a bit more light to the area. The angel in front of him was barely taller than he was, hair fluffy and curly, one brow arched over pale blue eyes. It was the mildly offended set of his lips that sparked Crowley’s memory. “You’re the angel from the wall!”

“From the wall…?”

Crowley took off his glasses.

“Oh! _You_!”

“Aw, you do remember me, angel.”

“My name is Azren Z. Fell, you’d do well to use it during what little time you have left.”

“S’not my fault your half of the introduction is what, five _thousand_ years late?”

Azren started rolling up his sleeves.

Something in Crowley's mind clicked. Azren. He knew that name. This was the angel that smited. Every. Single. Time. Normally most fights ended in forfeit or discorporation. It was just polite, really. This was their job, no smiting needed to get involved. “You really want to fight for this soul?”

“It’s my job as an aveng—”

“Pffft. ‘Avenging angel’, fuck’s sake. Avenging what? A several thousand year old perceived slight?”

“That you were the cause of if I recall correctly.” He held up his hand when Crowley made to respond, “Let’s get on with it if you don’t mind.”

Crowley made a show of dramatically sighing and unbuttoning his jacket, his mind whirling on how to tackle this. He hadn't really prepared himself for a serious fight. Most angels didn't stay on Earth duty for long. Couple centuries at most. Most ones he crossed paths with were inexperienced, both in how Earth worked and fighting. But not Azren. He'd been down on Earth since the beginning. As long as Crowley had.

He took off his heels, setting them aside.

This had the possibility to go very, very poorly.

He moved away from the wine racks, he needed space, he worked best with space, able to slink and slither. When he stopped and finally met Azren's gaze the angel raised his fists.

"Oh," Crowley said, lifting his own hands and settling into a familiar hunch, "good ol' fisticuffs, eh?"

"I'm going to have to insist you keep your mouth shut during."

He smirked, showing fangs and all, "Make me."

Azren was _fast_. Crowley actually let out a little gasp as he moved toward him. He was fast, but Crowley was faster. Which was good, he thought absently, now that he could see the man’s body in motion, because when those fists eventually connected it was going to _hurt_.

After a few tentative strikes as they sized each other up, Crowley landed the first hit and god, _fuck_ , the man was made out of cloud-covered _bricks_. He was definitely much sturdier than he looked and Crowley had the rising panic that no matter how fast he was, fighting this angel in an enclosed space was not to his advantage. He needed to end this quickly.

Venom would be the best bet but there was no way he was going to let himself get that close to those bone crushing arms. He let his nails grow longer, his fingers becoming claws. When he slashed across Azren’s side the angel looked more offended at the damage done to his wasitcoat than the actual bloody wound.

“Sorry, was it vintage?”

The glare he got in return was flat out murderous.

It seemed Azren was done humoring him as he came at him. Crowley got his arms up just in time, blocking as much as he could. Fuck he hit hard. It was going to hurt but it was all he could think to do to fully raise his arms, block his face, and expose his middle. The angel went for it, landing a hit to Crowley's right side and, yup, that was a couple ribs cracked. He took the opportunity it presented to slash his claws across Azren's face. As he stumbled back Crowley snapped his fingers, plunging the room into darkness.

He slid out and around Azren.

"Oh sorry angel, can you see in the dark? Let me."

He snapped his fingers again, flooding the area with bright light. While Azren recoiled he came up behind him, climbing onto his back, wrapping his arms around his throat.

Azren wasted no time in backing him into a wine rack, sending bottles tumbling, a few rolling across the floor, others shattering. Crowley tightened his grip, wrapping his legs around Azren’s thick middle. He couldn't remember the last time he got to constrict someone like this. It wasn't the same as when he was a snake but it still felt good.

The angel doubled over, taking a few steps forward. Crowley prepared himself for another slam against the bottles only Azren turned instead.

"You're not gonna ssshake me off that easssy."

Then he flung himself back.

The wind was knocked fully from Crowley as they hit the ground hard, Azren's weight pressing against him. Shards of glass dug into his back and his head rang. His grip slacked which gave Azren all the space he needed to grab Crowley's forearm with both hands and squeeze until it cracked. Crowley howled in pain, his free hand finding a chunk of glass that he brought down into Azren's neck. He aimed for an artery but could already tell he missed.

Azren rolled off of him, a hand to the wound, as Crowley scrambled back to a sitting position, arm pressed to his chest. Azren got to his feet first. One hand still on his throat, his other curled into a fist, divine energy crackling around it.

"Wait wait wait," Crowley said.

"Is this where you beg for your life?"

"Oh I don't beg."

"I can change that."

Crowley licked his lips and pushed to his feet, "You're gonna smite me, yeah?"

"That is the plan."

"Don't. Discorporate me instead."

"Why?"

"Why not? There's no rule saying you _have_ to smite. You're the only angel going around smiting people. A little discorproation does the trick just as well."

"You're just saying that because you don't want to die."

"Obviously. But also, you know, eeehh, I haven't a fight this good in ages. You?"

"I've had better."

"Ouch. And I doubt that. I know all the demons on temptation duty. Look these humans are just gonna constantly need influencing, aren't they? This is never going to end."

"Not until the war at least."

"Oh right yeah, the _Great War_ , whenever _that's_ supposed to happen."

"As far as humans are concerned it already did."

"Tuh-tuh-tuh, don't get techni--you know what I meant! Besides, in the mean time I don't see why I should have to die for the soul of a human that's going to find themselves questioning their faith or their identity or their tiny tiny place in the universe in another, what, decade? Do you?”

“I'm not the one about to die.”

He scoffed, “This time.”

“My dear, do you really think you could beat me?”

“Oh I know I can, angel. I'll admit this wasn't my best. Wasn't prepared for an angel worth his fluffy white wings. Next time though, you won't see me coming.”

“I find that highly unlikely.”

“Then discorporate me and we'll find out.”

“I haven't seen you in five thousand years, who's to say there _will_ be a next time?”

“I have friends in neutral places.”

Azren's brow quirked. He was interested. Of course he was, he wouldn't have indulged the conversation for as long as he had if he wasn't.

“Do we have a deal?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“You've nothing to lose, angel. You win this fight, you win this soul, and next time you have a chance to try winning again.”

Azren walked toward him, “I _will_ win again.”

Crowley backed up, a grin on his face, “Sure. Course. Whatever you say.”

His back hit the wall.

“You have some nerve, demon, trying to tempt me.”

“It’s Crowley, and that's the beauty of a temptation though, isn’t it? It's not called a convincing, is it? I'm not bending your arm. I'm not threatening you. There's no ultimatum.” He leaned in, lowered his voice, "You can't tempt someone to do something they aren't already considering.”

“I wanted to push you off the wall when I first met you.”

Crowley swallowed. Memories of a fall screeching at the edge of his mind. He shrugged. Exuding a cavalier attitude he did _not_ feel. "Maybe next time."

Azren closed the distance between them and Crowley noticed the piece of glass in his hand. He took hold of Azren's wrist as the jagged edge was pressed gently to his throat.

"Do we have a deal?"

Crowley caught the glimmer of the glass in Azren’s other hand just before it was stabbed in between his ribs.

He gasped.

Azren leaned in, “Yes,” he whispered. And then he did something in explicable. He _smirked_.

“Bastard.”

“Hmm.”

He twisted the shard before yanking it free and stepping back to let Crowley crumple to the floor.

Bastard didn’t even have the decency to let him die quickly. Crowley lay there, feeling his very human blood seep out. It wasn’t the first time he’d bled out. Most other angels just didn’t have the time or patience or, quite frankly, the divinity to smite.

He watched Azren heal his wounds. Slowly roll his sleeves back down. Miracle his clothes clean. Crowley felt an odd disappointment when he miracled the claw marks out of his waistcoat. He’d put them there. He’d do it again, too. He watched his blood pool beside him and then dissipate into thin air as his essence left. Either the light in the room had clicked off or his vision was going. Probably the latter, all things considered. The last thing he saw before it went completely black was Azren walking toward the bright light of the hall.

He didn’t even look back.

Crowley spent his entire wait in the queue thinking about how he would discorporate that angel.

Finally, something to look forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -  
> -  
> -  
> -  
> -  
> -  
> discorporation in this chapter is via stabbing


	2. Chapter 2

_1964..._

Azren hated humidity. Hated what it did to his hair. To his clothes. To his corporation. He, as an angel, would of course never complain or find fault with the Almighty's impeccable design behind Earth. It was ineffable.

As was his hatred for humidity.

"Ah!" He slapped his hand against his neck. "Blasted bugs."

With a sniff he miracled a cozy bug-free bubble around him and checked his pocket watch.

The job was set to start in five minutes and yet there was no demon to be seen. They would likely be late. Demons were often late. No standards, the lot of them. Unlike Azren, who showed up early, and would often wait a few minutes past the start time out of professional courtesy.

He glanced across the street.

A line of cars was parked in front of the house across the way. Balloons tied to the mailbox, the front door propped open as people came in carrying platters of food and desserts. Azren knew they would march through the house and out the back door to the yard where the grill was set up. He inhaled deeply. Oh, the smell of whatever was cooking over there was divine.

The job itself was simple enough. Wouldn’t take more than few moments conversation with the woman who lived there. He assumed the demon would target the husband. No matter, he thought, as he checked his pocket watch again; it was nearly start time and no demon. Soon he would be in the shade, sipping lemonade and eating delicious meat and avoiding whatever was the latest mayonnaise laden abomination this decade had to offer.

He watched the second hand tick steadily closer and closer to mark the hour and, yes, there it was, the job officially—

“Ah!” He winced, rubbing his neck.

The design of Earth was ineffable, was perfect, no fault could be found. And yet…Florida. He slipped his watch back to its resting place and made to cross the street.

“Aw,” a voice called out, “leaving so soon, angel?”

He spun around to see a figure standing in the alley, leaning against the side of the house. Azren recognized the red hair but took a moment to take in the brightly colored sleeveless dress and the white boots. The headband that matched the belt. The sunglasses.

“Miss me?”

“Hardly. Crowley, was it?”

“Mhmmm.”

“It’s been over forty years.”

“Bribery takes time and finesse.” He pushed off the wall, “Come on inside, this one’s empty, up for sale.”

“You want to fight _indoors_?”

“Sorry did you want to do it in the middle of the street for everyone to see?”

“I thought perhaps the back yard.”

“In this heat? We’ll both die of a fucking stroke.”

While he didn’t much care for his language, Azren had to agree with the demon as he was feeling a bit lightheaded. He gestured for Crowley to lead the way and he followed behind.

It was much dimmer inside, cooler, and Azren let out a small breath of relief. He needed some water.

“Just a moment, demon.”

Crowley scoffed but turned to follow him into the kitchen.

Oh it was _much_ cooler inside. He practically had goosebumps. He miracled a glass of water only for it to tumble through his fingers and shatter on the floor. Azren stared at his hand.

“Making a bit of a mess there, angel.”

He went to snap and found he couldn’t quite move his fingers. As he struggled to make sense of what was happening his knees buckled and he leaned over onto the counter to slow his fall. He couldn’t push himself back up.

“Alright, I guess have a seat then.”

He looked up at the demon, “You.”

“Hmm?”

“How did you—” What little strength he had in his legs gave out completely and he hit the floor.

“Oh my,” Crowley said dramatically, dropping to his knees and shifting Azren into a sitting position.

“How?”

“How’s that bug bite, angel?”

Azren groaned. He would have slammed his head back in frustration but he couldn’t bloody move. Breathing was getting to be a bit difficult as well.

“Oh let me,” Crowley snapped his fingers.

Nothing happened.

“Just messed with how time works in here. This drug doesn’t last very long, four, six minutes tops. I gave you a hefty dose, it _will_ kill you, but I don’t want it to be over too soon, y’know? You did wait forty-two years just to lose, afterall. Would hate for it to be over in a few minutes wouldn’t you?”

“I’m going to snap your neck.”

“Yeah but not today, angel.”

He frowned, “I can still talk?”

“Little demonic miracle of my own.”

“How kind.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t leave you here to die alone on the floor. Unlike some people, I’m a gentleman.”

Azren couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so blindingly angry. Perhaps it was Eden. After the business with the apple. Which had _also_ been this same demon’s doing. He was going to discorporate him slowly and painfully next time.

Crowley slid off his glasses and set them down beside him as he stretched with a little ‘hmm’, running his hands up long legs.

“The owner,” Azren squeezed out, “of that speakeasy.”

“What of him?”

“He said ‘he’ when referring to you.”

Crowley froze.

“Was he correct?”

“He was.” His eyes met Azren’s, guarded in a way he hadn’t seen yet, “Is that a problem?”

“No. Merely want to be able to f..f…” his throat was fighting him, “file my report accurately.”

“Hmm,” Crowley said, settling back. “What’s the ‘Z’ stand for?”

“…what?”

“You said your name was ‘Azren Z. Fell’. I’m not even going to touch on the, frankly offensive, choice for an angel to name himself ‘Fell’. So, what’s the ‘Z’ stand for?”

Maybe it was the lack of oxygen to his brain, no it was certainly the lack of oxygen to his brain that led to Azren saying, “Zazzle.”

Crowley snorted, “Seriously?”

“No, you unbelievable ass.”

“How was I supposed to know you had a sense of humor?”

“I don’t.”

He snorted again, a small smile on his lips. It was…endearing? No that must be the lack of oxygen talking. Well, gasping really.

“You?”

“What about me?”

“I…” Oh this was getting difficult. Why did he want to keep talking? “Looked you up. Impressive…record. Been down here as long…as I have.”

“I think it’s _up_ here for me?”

Azren went to tilt his head in concession and remembered he couldn’t. “Anthony…J…Crowley. …The ‘J’?”

“Jane.”

“…really?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Jane.”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“Didn’t…say that…” He winced, “Anthony…” he rasped, “Jane…Crowley.”

“Oh just like that, angel.”

“Does…roll off the tongue.”

“One of my many specialties.”

He gasped, his muscles trying to twitch and finding themselves locked in place. Or maybe they were simple twitching so quickly it seemed to bleed together.

“Shh, shshsh.” Crowley slinked over, settling in beside Azren. His movements were somehow slow and sinuous and instant, if Azren could blink he would have missed it. “I’m here,” Crowley said as he snapped his fingers.

While he hadn’t been able to tell that time slowed, Azren certainly felt it as it quickened, the lack of air in his lungs somehow weighing heavy on his chest. His head hurt. His chest hurt.

“Hey, hey hey,” Crowley turned his face toward him. “Hey. Azren.” He grinned, “What’s the ‘Z’ stand for?”

Despite everything a pitiful scoff escaped him. It might have been a laugh in a normal circumstance. “…it’s…” he gasped, “just…a ‘Z’….really…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> tonight's discorporation flavor is : asphyxiation caused by a paralytic agent


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Crimis if you celebrate! And if you don't, then Happy Friday! <3

_1985..._

Crowley shoved his hands as deep as they would go in the tiny pockets of his leather jacket. It was fucking cold. Job wasn't set to start for another few minutes but he would freeze to death before an angel showed up. Stupid cold-blooded...blood.

He wanted to get this done with as quickly as possible. Besides freezing his tits off, this particular job left a bad taste in his mouth. The Necromancy ones always did. Luckily this wasn’t more than just getting the human pointed in the right direction to start their journey. He hated ones that involved more…hands-on approaches. Shovels and dark graveyards.

A shiver wracked through him and he watched his breath steam in the air. He was about to slip into the building early, job etiquette be damned, and get it over with when he smelled a familiar cologne.

His tongue flicked out.

Azren.

Crowley just barely got one hand up in time as the garrote was quickly slipped over his head and pulled tight. He slammed back against Azren's chest.

"Hello, dear," Azren whispered in his ear, "miss me?"

“Always.”

He winced as the wire was pulled tighter.

“I’d prefer to get this job over with if you don’t mind.”

The low rumble of Azren’s voice in his ear was doing positively unseemly things to him. Not to mention the scratch of…“Do you have a beard?”

“Perhaps.”

“Hnn, lemme see.”

The wire cut in, drawing blood. Crowley winced and shifted, his fingers turning into claws, scales blossoming over the back of his hand, preventing the wire from digging in further.

"I do believe that's cheating."

"Nu-uh."

"Well then."

The wire slackened a fraction and Azren's hand came around, grabbed hold of Crowley's and slammed it forward, driving his claws into his throat.

Well, Crowley thought dimly as his stupid cold-blooded blood spilled over his chest, that's just embarrassing.

_1992..._

Azren wasn't sure why, but he _liked_ talking to Crowley. It was never really more than a bit of banter before their fight but it was refreshing all the same. He didn't talk with the other angels, even when he was in Heaven for some asinine meeting or team building exercise. He certainly didn't chat with the other demons, although that could have something to do with his habit of smiting first and asking questions...never.

But with Crowley it was different. He didn't want it admit it to himself but he was even beginning to look forward to work. He found himself showing up to job sites a little earlier, just in case he was the demon assigned, just in case he was already there, just in case he might have an annoying, snarky comment to make that Azren could shoot down with his own. He would never admit it out loud but Crowley had been on to something, taking the seriousness out of the job. It was just work, afterall. Every day, several times a day, it would be one soul after another until the end days. Over the centuries Azren had found small ways to keep himself entertained, books of course, plays, the occasional cinematographic show. But he never had _company_. Someone to talk to. Human friendships were an impossibility, Azren cared far too deeply to develop that sort of connection with someone who would only die in a few short decades. He'd tried and it never got any easier. No, no, humans were best for the occasional dalliance, a friendly conversation in a bar, nothing more. But with Crowley? Well he was a coworker wasn't he, in a way. They had a job to do, different quarterly goals, but the same job really. What was the harm in a bit of talk around the proverbial water cooler before clocking in?

The bar was miraculously empty. He wondered if it was that, a miracle. Or maybe because it was two in the afternoon. The Neutral Department was always very good about setting up job meets in unoccupied spaces, should the fight get messy. Crowley sat on a stool right at the center, an empty glass in front of him as he carefully filed his nails.

Azren sat down, leaving a seat between them.

The file was metal. Pointed.

"You're early."

"I'm always early, angel. Drink?"

"Not while working."

"Hmm."

Crowley went back to his nails and Azren's eyes wandered. He was wearing a long black dress. Hugged...every inch of him. Interestingly, a embroidered motif of vines and leaves went up one side and over the shoulder, crossing his back. It made Azren think of the garden and he wondered if that was the point. As always, the chunky copper necklace of odd geometric shapes rested across his clavicle and part-ways down his chest. It didn't go with the dress, of course, even he could tell that, but Crowley never took it off.

Azren's gaze returned to the detailed vines trailing up and over his shoulder. There were freckles there. Down his arm. Over his back. He wondered how far they went.

"Gonna make this one quick if that's alright with you."

"Oh?"

"Got a date."

"A date?"

"Aw, did you think I dressed up for you?"

"I didn't realize this was dressed up."

Crowley's mouth dropped open in obvious offense, "This is _Versace_."

“Is that word supposed to mean something?"

He scoffed, "Dunno what I expected, you've been wearing the same bloody suit for centuries."

"And your date will have a better appreciation? I wasn't aware fashion discourse was common in Hell."

"Who said it's a demon?"

Azren's brow quirked.

"What? Humans are _fun_. And easily impressed. You have no idea what thisss tongue can do."

It was a testament to his willpower that Azren pointedly did _not_ let his gaze leave Crowley's eyes to watch his tongue do…what ever it was doing when he said that.

"I see."

"No you don't. But maybe one day if you're very, very good..."

"I've already told you your pathetic attempts at temptation won't work on me."

Crowley crossed his legs and when Azren looked back up it was to a smug grin plastered across the demon's face. "Sure, angel."

Maybe he should have taken the drink.

"See you're sticking with the beard."

"I like it."

Crowley leaned forward, gently biting that lower lip, "It's a good look."

"Does this work for you? The blatant come-hither routine? Do other angels fall for that?"

He chuckled, "Satan, but I love angelic hubris. Hate to break it to you angel, but what I wear and how I move and the things I say are because they make _me_ feel good. I like the way it makes me feel, inside and out, sexy and powerful and confident and its got fuck all to do with you or anyone else. Appreciation is a bonus not the reason. Although, interesting choice of words. Come-hither routine, hmm?"

"How long do you think your date will wait before..." Azren hesitated, "He? Realizes you aren't going to show?"

"Well that had all the subtlety of an acme anvil."

"A what?"

"She, angel. Not that I'm particular, since you clearly want to know without having to actually ask. And she’s not going to have to wait. I’m winning this one.”

“Something to be said for demonic hubris I should think.”

“Not when it’s based on fact.”

Somewhere nearby the echo of the Westminster Chimes started, marking the turn of the hour.

“Well,” Azren said with a sigh, “I suppose that’s that.”

With a slow and sensual movement of his hand, Crowley leaned over and lifted the hem of his dress up to nearly his waist. Azren knew the holster and accompanying dagger on Crowley’s thigh was what he should have been paying attention to but all he could think was that there were freckles on the demon’s hip.

Lightening quick Crowley slid the dagger free and drove it into Azren’s hand, the blade burying deep into the bar top. Then he was up and over the other side. Azren pushed to his feet and yanked the blade free. He darted forward, swiping at Crowley, who ducked easily and drove _another_ dagger into his arm, a little higher this time, right through his wrist.

He swiped back but it was awkward, he was over extended, the bar top in his way, _and_ it was his off hand. Did Crowley know that? Of course he did.

GONG!

Crowley parried easily, punching Azren once in the face before vaulting over the bar once more.

GONG!

With one hand Crowley tilted Azren’s head aside, exposing his neck. The stabs were quick, just two, but precise. Azren dropped the one dagger to put a hand to his throat in an attempt to stay the bleeding. It was no use, even if he got the other blade out of his wrist he would just speed up the rate at which he bled out.

Crowley sat beside him with a smile.

“You have lovely hands, Azren. Nails are always so perfectly manicured.” He slipped the bloody nail file into Azren’s waistcoat, right alongside his pocket watch. “To remember me by.”

When Azren materialized in the queue his hand flew to his pocket. His watch was there, as always. It had taken some consistent miracle work as well as the assistance of a few expert Enchanters, but he managed to work it so when he discorporated he maintained his clothes and his watch. Heaven took care of the corporation, but everything else was Earth-made and not strictly guaranteed.

He hoped because it had been the same pocket… He slipped the watch out and yes, there it was.

“Ew,” Raphael said beside him, “what is _that?"_

“A souvenir,” Azren said, turning the file over, his dried blood caked to it.

“Most people get keychains, Az.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> this afternoon's flavor of discorporation is primarily stabbing with a bit of garrote (not to be confused with the gavotte) to garnish


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year friends!! I've updated the tags! (Just added one for now lol)
> 
> As always, discorporation information can be found in the end notes!

_1999_

“But it’s New Year’s!”

“Yes, and?”

“Angel!”

“Demon.”

Crowley scoffed, “Can’t we at least wait until after midnight? It’s a new millennium.”

“And the sixth of it’s kind. You’ve seen five others.”

“I want to see the fireworks. They’re letting a bunch of Illusionists do it this year.”

“You’re a demon.”

“So I can’t like magical fireworks?”

“You can do _proper_ magic.”

“This is _human_ magic, it’s different, angel.”

Azren pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again Crowley was looking at him with wide, hopeful eyes. It was obnoxious and embarrassing and not at all behavior befitting a celestial entity, even a demon. The whole display was made all the more disgusting by how _genuine_ it was. Crowley wasn’t trying to tempt him. There was no batting of eyelashes or coy smirks. He wasn’t distracting Azren with his long legs. He was just…asking.

It was ridiculous and unprofessional and underneath all of that it was a level of vulnerability Crowley hadn’t shown him before. He couldn’t tell if it was the display that made him nauseous or the weird feeling he got when he let out a defeated sigh and Crowley immediately perked up.

“You get two minutes past midnight an—”

“Yeeeesssssss.”

“And _then_ we settle the job.”

“Yeah sure, job, whatever. Magic fireworks, angel, focus on the important bits.”

With another ten minutes to go at least, Azren put his hands in his coat pockets and took in his surroundings. The park was large and full of people. There was a section not too far away that ought to be secluded. At least it would be while the fireworks were happening. Waiting until they finished gave them a much smaller window to fight.

“I can practically _hear_ you thinking, y’know.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. Gears clanking. Steam billowing.”

“And what is it I’m thinking about?”

“No clue but I doubt it’s about how fresh the night air is. Or how clear the sky.”

Azren looked over at Crowley. He stood with his head tilted back, gaze on the stars above. His arms were crossed over his chest. He was probably cold. He was always cold.

“Did you ever think they’d make it this far? With the magic I mean.”

He shook his head, turning back to the crowd around them, “Not for another few centuries at least.”

“Really?”

“They don’t exactly have a good track record with this sort of thing, my dear. It wasn’t that long ago they were burning people at stakes.”

“Good point.”

“Agnes would be a bit annoyed about the whole thing I imagine.”

“Who’s Agnes?”

“Old friend.”

“It’s exciting though. Can’t wait to see what they do with it all.”

“You mean besides find new ways to destroy one another?”

“Right…”

He’d said it casually, joking, but at the tone in Crowley’s voice he looked over once more. The look on his face had hardened. Brows furrowed and jaw tight. Azren felt…guilty? It wasn’t something he was familiar with, truth be told. “What do _you_ think they’ll do with it?”

“I mean you’re right. They probably will just destroy—”

“What were you _hoping_ they’d do?” Before he’d said something to put that look on his face. Before he’d dimmed his light.

“I’unno. _Not_ destroy? Make something beautiful?”

What did demons know of beauty? The thought felt cruel, even as it filled his head, but especially when the first whistle of a firework cut the air and in the silence before its explosion he heard Crowley gasp. A quiet thing. A little sound so full of excitement and hope and something else. Joy? Heavens, it’d been so long since Azren had tasted it, he almost didn’t recognize it.

Joy.

The firework exploded, bright colors of red and gold that lit up the demon’s face. Crowley’s hands raised, fingertips pressed to his lips, a smile hidden beneath.

Joy.

With each new display, each burst of color and spectacle, he let out little gasps and sighs. Quiet oh’s and murmured wow’s.

Joy.

Several exploded at once with a boom, the sky practically ablaze, and Crowley _squealed_ , one hand darting out to grasp Azren’s arm. Without thinking he jerked his arm out of reach. Crowley didn’t seem to notice, eyes locked on the sky. He patted at the air between them a moment before another boom startled him and his hand flew up to cover his mouth once more.

Azren looked down at his arm. Where Crowley’s hand could be. Painted nails gripping the fabric of his coat.

No.

This was.

Unprofessional.

He snapped his fingers, making the area around them a bit harder to see. The trees a bit denser. Shadows cast a bit deeper. If a human were to look their way they might see a shadow, if they squinted. But no humans would look. Not with the fireworks. He slipped behind Crowley, a hand coming to his throat.

“Time’s up.”

Crowley didn’t even pretend to fight back, “Already, angel?”

He tightened his grip, leaned to his ear, “Shh. Watch the sky.” He squeezed, pulling Crowley flush against him. Deeper into the shadows, he told himself.

“You know,” Crowley said casually, “I put a lot of effort and, hn,” he coughed, “f-finesse into your discorp-porugh-r-rations and with you its all, ack, all stabbing and neck snapping and cho-ack-guh-choking. It’s almost like you, hungh, don’t even—don’t even care.”

Azren was suddenly thankful he’d slipped behind Crowley, so the demon couldn’t see the smile on his face. Why was he smiling? Why was this somehow charming? “It is quick,” he said, “and efficient. I’m a very busy angel, my dear.”

“I think you—hngh,” he gasped, “I think you just like the feeling of m-my lithe, warm body wriggling against—”

Azren snapped his neck.

Crowley went slack and Azren caught him. Held him up. Arms wrapped around his waist. Just until the shell disappeared. Wouldn’t do for it to hit the ground. Someone might notice that, fireworks or not.

Yes.

That made sense.

As he looked up at the night sky he was struck with the memory of a thought he’d had a long, long time ago.

He hadn’t needed both hands after all.

*

It wasn't always...intimate. Sometimes Azren really was busy and had a meeting get to, some obligation in Heaven, another job scheduled soon after. Sometimes it felt paramount to get the job done in a timely fashion because they were being watched overall, of course. He wasn't sure how Hell tracked these things but Heaven was paying attention.

Someone in Heaven had to be paying attention.

There was the fight in the train station. Which ended precisely how one might imagine. Azren almost felt a bit guilty over it to be honest, he hadn't meant to throw Crowley quite that far. He certainly didn't expect him to land on the tracks or get his foot caught.

He suspected Crowley never quite forgave him for it, too. At least until the glass incident. Azren _still_ didn't know how he'd worked it but one moment he was walking down the street, annoyed that he had to upset his normal route for construction, and the next there was a lot of shouting and screaming. Something hit him and he felt his back hit the trunk of a tree from the force of it. He couldn't quite figure out why people were screaming and running in horror. Until he looked down at the huge sheet of glass that was jutting from his waist. It cut clean through and embedded into the tree behind him. He had just enough time to process the sight of his blood slowly spreading over the glass, blocking the sight of his legs on the ground, before he woke up in the queue.

After that Crowley seemed much less put out over the whole train incident. He did, however, seem upset that Azren had not seen either The Omen or Final Destination and so had no "appreciation for the amount of work that had gone into that particular discorporation". He further argued that surely The Omen must be required watching for his department.

Azren said, dryly, that he'd suggest it at the next department-wide movie night.

Which had made Crowley chuckle softly.

He liked that sound.

It was professional. It was work.

Until it wasn't.

*

_2002_

Bartholomew’s Brew was a cafe tucked between a bookshop and an adult store. It’s logo was of a black cat stirring a cauldron, coffee beans scattered around it. Azren had never tried the coffee, and the tea was honestly just barely passable, but they did have the most wonderful crumb cake. And blackberry scones. The lemon poppyseed muffins were the size of his fist. As were the orange cranberry ones. And oh the double chocolate chunk cookies, to die for. Plus the shop was _right there_. If he wanted a perfect cup of tea he could make one. Or miracle one. Going out was about the experience.

And the crumb cake.

Azren settled in his usual seat tucked in a corner of the cafe, right by the window. There were two oversized and comfortable, if not a little worse for wear, chairs opposite one another. A small round table set between, the surface barely big enough to hold two cups of coffee much less any food. It was, however, large enough to hold a single cup of tea and a simple dessert, which suited Azren just fine. None of the furniture matched, the carpet was threadbare, and it was always the wrong temperature. Just too cold to be comfortable in the summer and too warm in the winter.

The windows in his corner were nearly floor to ceiling, and gave him a wonderful view of the street outside. It was relaxing. He didn't’ exactly get days off but he always seemed to have just the _worst_ reception on Sundays between two and four p.m. Couldn’t be helped.

He sipped his tea, took a bite of his crumb cake, and settled in to do the crossword.

The only downside to his cozy little spot was the small station of napkins and stirrers and sugar and the like. There was one on the other side of the cafe, by the pick up counter, but every so often someone would wander over to his corner. Luckily most humans had no interest sitting in close quarters with a complete stranger. (And a well aimed glare scared off the more adventurous.) So Azren learned if he didn’t look up, he was likely to go on being left alone.

Which is why, when he noticed a lean figure slink over to the station, he noted the all black and the tight jeans and then promptly ignored them. When the ambiguous gesture of a person seemed to turn and look in his direction he sent a small miracle their way. Just a suggestion that they don’t want to sit there after all. Chair has a weird stain, maybe.

“Well that’s a bit rude.”

He snapped his newspaper down to see Crowley leaning on the chair opposite him.

“Do you often plant suggestions in the minds of humans?”

“What are you doing here?”

He held up his to-go cup with a little shake.

“What are you _really_ doing here?”

“I’m _really_ here for the coffee.” Crowley climbed into the empty chair, his legs a jumble, and pulled out his phone.

“I beg your pardon.”

“S’a free country, angel. Just go back to your paper.”

“I find it hard to believe you just happen to be in the same cafe as me, Crowley. Now tell me what you’re up to.”

Without taking his eyes off his phone Crowley held up his coffee cup once more.

"You're not...planning something? Something demonic?"

He scoffed, "Six shots of espresso demonic enough for you?"

"Hmm. Well I'm here to relax as it were. I'll appreciate you not bothering me."

“You're the only one pressing this conversation." Finally he looked up, "I didn't know you were here. Couldn't quite pick up your scent over everything else and by then I'd already ordered so," he shrugged and went back to his phone.

Azren was at a loss. Surely there was something more to this? Surely Crowley was up to something? Planning something? What did demons do when they weren't working jobs? Surely more than drink coffee and putter about on their mobiles?

Slowly, Azren lifted his paper once more and attempted to read.

It was a lost cause, really. He kept peering over the edge at Crowley. Or sneaking glances at their reflections in the window. But every time he looked Crowley was just reading. Or sipping his coffee. Once, he had the cup precariously balanced on his knee while his thumbs furiously jabbed at his screen. About fifteen minutes later Crowley snapped his fingers and Azren tensed but it became clear all he'd done was refill his cup.

Azren didn't know what to _do_. He'd never been in Crowley's company when not on a job. They couldn't just sit there as though they weren't enemies, could they? The bantering before a fight was one thing. It was part of the routine. A warm-up. This? This had no precedence. This made no sense. What was Crowley's goal with this? He could have taken his precious espresso and left, why had he chosen to stay, why sit there?

After trying and failing for the fifth time to read the same article on the rise in crimes utilizing Conjuration magic and the call for stricter regulations, Azren stole another peek over the top of his paper.

He stared.

Crowley had turned fully sideways in the chair, one leg folded up, the other draped over the arm. He held his phone in one hand, that cup in the other, but he was barely looking at either. His eyes kept drooping shut, his head drifting down. He'd startle slightly, sniff and shift and repeat the process. His cup would tilt dangerously sideways, threatening to spill hot coffee across his lap.

It was a trick. It had to be. He was...trying to...lure...Azren into a sense of... He couldn't even finish the thought, it made no sense. What would be the end goal to pretending to fall asleep? He very well couldn't start a fight in the middle of a crowded cafe. No, the demon was just honestly and truly dozing off in front of his enemy.

A flick of Azren’s wrist and the cup was miracled from Crowley's hand and onto the floor beside his chair. Crowley's fingers flexed slightly around the air, and with his sole anchor seemingly gone, his chin dipped as he fell asleep.

Azren watched.

He'd never been one for sleep. He'd heard from other angels it was nice, relaxing even. Others talked about dreams. He heard about nightmares. He just didn’t see the point. His corporation didn't need it if he didn't let it, why spend time doing...nothing, when he could be reading or listening to music or experiencing literally _anything?_ He didn't understand the appeal.

He was beginning to find the appeal in watching though.

At some point Crowley let out a quiet murmur and pulled both legs in and onto the chair, fully curling up, folding his arms and tucking them against him as he turned in.

He looked comfortable. Relaxed. Azren had never seen a side of him like this. It was either smart remarks or witty comebacks or slashing claws. A hint of teeth behind a carefully calculated smirk. Sly winks and high heels. It wasn't ever...jeans with holes and plain running shoes. It wasn't a zip-up hoodie with oversized pockets. It wasn't his hair in a loose braid, no make up, no jewelry. It wasn't any of that and Azren wondered why Crowley chose to stay. Why he chose to _let_ Azren see this?

Crowley shifted, muttering something in a celestial tongue Azren hadn't heard in millenia. He was rusty but it sounded like he said something about 'burning'. Azren almost felt a pang of...something he wasn't going to put a name to before he heard Crowley mumble, in a very clear, very human language, 'muffins'.

The demon was dreaming about burning muffins.

A puff of laughter escaped Azren, a small smile playing at his lips.

There was no doubt that Crowley was fearsome. One doesn't spend so long on Earth, fighting every day for nearly six thousand years, and not become a bit dangerous. Azren would know. He'd also read Crowley's record. He'd never forfeited a fight, never turned down a job, he'd been discorporated more than Azren, but Azren had permanently ended far, far more than him. He'd read some of the more notable jobs. Ones where he went undercover for lengths of time, became an integral part of a human's life. Ones that involved intricate poisons and traps. Ones, ages and ages old, that largely resembled folklores about giant snakes, and medusas, and mermaids. He could be vicious, when he wanted to be, and Azren had no doubt in his mind that if Cowley every truly put in a fraction of his strength as a celestial, it would be a harrowing fight.

And yet there he sat, curled up and snoring.

It lasted only a few moments more before Crowley’s phone loudly went off and violently startled him awake. He flailed, slapping at his lap, where the device had fallen between him and the cushion of the chair. He finally managed to shut it off and lifted his glasses to squint at the screen.

Azren wondered why he chose to wear them. He didn’t have to, not anymore. With the rise of Transmutation magic so many humans were walking around with different eyes, horns, tails, whatever they liked, really. And those who couldn’t afford those kinds of alterations tended to go for the combination of an Enchanted item and Illusion magic. No one would look twice at Crowley’s eyes.

Except Azren.

Crowley blinked hard, rubbed his eyes and set his glasses back down. He looked around the chair, over at the table, one brow arched high.

“The floor,” Azren said.

He bent over, “Ah,” and picked up his coffee cup. He made a face when he took a sip, “Blargh, cold.” Then he was looking at his phone again.

Azren could see the screen. The familiar app that populated jobs and their details. The big green check mark in one bottom corner. The red x in the other.

“Don’t s’pose you’ve a job over in Soho tonight?”

“I do not.”

He sucked his teeth.

If Azren didn’t know better he’d think Crowley was contemplating turning down the job. He didn’t know what repercussions Hell had for such a choice. He’d never done it himself but he heard from other angels it involved a lot of paperwork or sometimes a hearing. More work, it seemed, than to just smite the demon and sway the human. Why would Crowley turn it down? Because Azren wouldn’t be there? What else would he do? Continue sitting in this cafe, quietly dozing, while Azren pretending to read his paper?

He forced down the bubble of _something_ that caught in his throat at the thought.

Eventually Crowley jabbed the green check mark and fairly launched out of his seat. “See ya around, angel.”

“Right. Yes. Uh…”

But he was already gone.

Azren didn't do the crossword. He didn’t read the article he’d been trying to. He didn’t even finish his crumb cake, which had gone hard while it sat out. Something was happening and he didn’t know what it was. He didn’t have a word for it. He thought, perhaps, if this was a human he’d be able to define it. To categorize it. But this was a demon.

This was Crowley.

It was work.

He gathered his stale cake and threw it out, set his cup in the plastic bin, and tucked his paper under his arm. Perhaps a bath. He still had some time left to his unofficial break, a bath might do wonders.

Unless a job came in for Soho.

No.

A bath and he would think no more on any of this.

“Oh, Mr. Fell?” The barista waved him over.

“Yes, my dear?”

“You like the marionberry zucchini bread, right?”

“It’s one of my favorites. Top three I should say.”

“Oh good, that’s what I thought. I wasn’t sure when he asked but then Elise said you did, so…” She dipped below the counter.

“When who asked?”

“Here you go! Oh wow, it’s still warm. That’s weird, its been like twenty minutes.”

Azren eyed the small baggie. “Uh, thank you. How much do I owe?”

“No, no, your friend already paid for it.”

“My friend?”

“The redhead,” she said over her shoulder as she shuffled over to help her coworkers.

“But…we’re not friends,” he said as he picked up the bag, the quiet hum of a demonic miracle pulsing through it. “We don’t even know each other.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Bringing in the new year with one neck snap  
> one getting hit by a train (non-graphic description) and  
> one getting cut in half (fairly graphic description)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added another tag >_>

It doesn't happen every Sunday. But it does happen again. Usually the Sunday following a job, they just happen to find themselves in the cafe, sitting across one another, Azren reading his paper or doing a crossword, Crowley doing Lord-knows-what on his phone. They don't talk, they barely acknowledge each other’s existence save for the occasional extra pastry that Crowley will bring with him and set on the table in front of Azren before plopping in his seat. Or the quiet ‘hmph’ Crowley will make when discovering his cup is empty, followed by the snap of Azren’s fingers that will refill it for him.

It’s comfortable.

It’s professional.

*

_2005_

Crowley was lean and lithe and slender and so many other words to describe the length of his body. His long legs and arms and fingers. That neck.

He was also incredibly fucking _strong_.

Azren's head snapped back as Crowley's knee crashed into his jaw. He stumbled, putting a hand to his mouth. At _least_ one tooth was cracked. Maybe two. Before he could fully get his bearings something crashed into the back of his legs, knocking his feet out from under him. Whatever it was, was big and heavy. As he pushed up onto his side with one arm he looked up to see a giant snake tail slithering away from him. His gaze followed its length back to where it met with Crowley's waist. The demon smirked and between one blink and the next he had human legs once again.

Azren chose not to explore the flare of disappointment in his chest.

Crowley let him get back to his feet. He was polite that way.

"That was different," he said, still working the ache in his jaw.

"Different bad?"

"Just different."

"I'll admit I've thought about constricting you."

" _That_ sounds bad."

He chuckled.

Having both caught their breaths, Crowley raised those claws of his, ready to keep going. He very rarely attacked first, not if it wasn't from the shadows. There was a bit of exposed rebar behind the demon and Azren had every intention of impaling him on it.

"Ready, angel?"

If he did it right, they'd still have a few minutes before Crowley bled out. He had a few ideas of what smart remarks the demon would make about being impaled. Innuendos of all sorts, probably.

"Ready."

"Um! Excuse me!" A voice squeaked out from the darkness.

"Who's there?" Azren asked.

"Hey, hi, um," Eric stepped out, "hi, sorry."

"Eric243!" Crowley said.

"Hi Mr. Crowley," they said as they came closer. They turned to Azren and their face fell. "Um, hello Azr-uh-Mr.Fe....Mr. Azr...Mr...Sir."

He frowned, "Is there a reason you're disturbing us? We are in the middle of a job."

"Right! Yes! Here on official Neutral Department business," they held up the little plastic ID card that hung around their neck. It featured the Neutral logo: a pair of shaking hands, in the background one white wing and one black. "They sent me to let you both know that the job's been canceled."

"Awww," Crowley groaned, throwing his head back, " _Really?"_

"Y-yeah. Sorry."

"Why has it been canceled?"Azren asked. He didn’t care about the job itself, not really. It was the principle of the matter. That was all.

They shrugged, "Sorry, they don't...really tell me things. I just deliver the messages and, y’know, coffee. You're not gonna discorporate me are you?"

"Why would I do that?"

"You know," Crowley said, "there's a reason for the phrase shooting the messenger. Demons. Demons are the reason.” He turned to Eric, “We're not gonna discorporate you, 243."

“Aw thanks. Oh, also! Neutral did say to give you these." They held something out to Crowley, who took it, and then they got as close to Azren as their extended arm would allow them.

He snatched the item and looked down at it. It was a ticket stub. The sort you get at carnivals or cheap fairs.

"What's this then?" Crowley asked.

"It's a uh, well, it’s a quick pass? You can, skip to the head of the queue next time you're...," they put their hands to their neck and made an exaggerated face.

“Oh that’s _new_.”

“Yeah they’re testing it out. They um, I think there was talk of a sort of like, discorporation punch card? Get ten and get a free ticket.”

“Ooo.”

“Yeah but then they decided that was kind of…rewarding failure? I guess?”

“Huh. Yeah I guess so. Maybe a leader board then?”

“Oh that’s good! I’ll tell them that! Can I tell them that?”

“It’s all yours, friend.”

“Nice! Um alright. I guess I'll just," they took a step back, "let you get back to it? Or not. You don't have to, job being canceled and all. Or you can. If you. Want. I guess? Right. Bye."

"Ciao, 243."

The Neutral agent disappeared with a pop!

Crowley let out a heavy sigh and went about miracling his clothes clean and healing his wounds.

No fight then. Which meant they had no reason, technically, to continue...being in the same space together. He should probably go home. Catch up on some reading.

He didn't want to do that. He felt a bit robbed, to be honest. This was not how the night was supposed to go.

"Look at you," Crowley said, head tilted, "you don't know what to do with yourself if we're not fighting."

Azren cleared his throat and turned his attention to healing his own wounds.

"We could still...” Crowley made one of his contemplative-Crowley sounds, “I don't know. Hang...out?"

"Hang out?"

"Look I'm just saying, we're already here, it's quiet and deserted. We could, have a sit down. Enjoy the night air. Play a game."

"What sort of _game?"_

He shrugged. "I don’t know. Twister? Twenty questions? Truth or dare? Trick or treat?"

"Even I know that last one isn't a game."

"Could be. I can think of a few treats for you."

And there was that flirtatious tone again. Only...they weren't going to fight. So where was this going to go?

Crowley flopped onto the dusty floor, "Come on, let's do twenty questions."

He _did_ have a lot of questions.

"Unless you have somewhere else to be? Hot date waiting for you back home?"

"Hardly." Azren snapped his fingers and miracled a blanket on the ground, tartan of course, and a few pillows. The pillows were a bit random as he hadn't put any thought into them besides 'soft'.

Crowley picked up the one closest him, "Lace, angel?"

“I happen to like lace. It's nice. I like the intricate patterns."

"Hmm. Noted."

Azren had to tear his eyes away from Crowley's. _Where was this going?_ It was one thing for alright, a bit of friendly, _professional_ banter, maybe a bit of flirting, before a friendly, _professional_ fight leading to an objective and impersonal discorporation followed by some more friendly _professional_ banterflirting but _this?_ What was he to do with this? How was this supposed to culminate if not with violent discorporation?

Once settled on the blanket, for lack of anything else to do with his hands, he miracled himself a thermos of hot cocoa.

"What's in that?"

"That's your first question."

"Ugh, yeah fine, what's in the thermos?"

"Hot cocoa. Or holy water. Who's to say?"

" _You!_ You are! You have to answer the question, that’s the whole point of the game.”

“I did. Its cocoa. Or holy water.”

“Is that a habit of yours, sipping on holy water?"

"Could be."

"Cocoa, huh? I'd peg you," he paused, playing with the lace pillow case, "for a tea drinker, that is."

Azren’s brow quirked but he forced his mind not to go down _that_ road. "As I said, it could be holy water."

"Nah, I bet it's cocoa. Probably with little marshmallows on top."

"Would you care to test that theory?"

Crowley looked from him to the thermos. "That's more of a dare than a question, angel. Wrong game."

"Well if you're scared."

"Not scared."

He unscrewed the lid, working a small miracle as he did so there would be no steam or smell of chocolate.

Crowley bit his lip.

"Well?"

"Yeah alright. What do I win if I'm right?"

"You win a mouth not full of holy water."

He scoffed, but crawled over just the same.

He knelt in front of Azren, hands on his knees, and wasn't _that_ something?

"Close your eyes."

He glanced at the thermos, his tongue flicking out. "Don't smell anything."

"And I don't want you to _see_ it either, that would be cheating. So close your eyes."

Crowley swallowed. He looked up from the thermos and at Azren.

There was something happening here and Azren knew enough to know it was of a magnitude he was not fully grasping. He was asking Crowley to trust him. It was hot chocolate. Of course it was. He would never use holy water. Besides it being a permanent end, it was not quick, it was not painless. Holy water was cruel. And Azren would never do that to his...to Crowley.

"Alright," he said and closed his eyes.

Azren didn't move, didn't fill the cup. He just looked. Took the sight in. Crowley kneeling before him, eyes closed. Patient and waiting and trusting. He was caught off guard by the urge to cry.

"...angel?"

"Can't handle a bit of anticipation?" He was amazed his voice didn't sound as breathless as he felt. His hands however, did shake a bit as he poured some cocoa into the cap. At the sound of the liquid pouring Crowley inhaled sharply, tensing a bit. Azren raised the cap to his lips, "Here," he said softly.

Crowley reached up with both hands, and Azren was a bit relieved to see they were shaking as well. He placed them gently over the cup, fingers lingering on Azren's. He should have let go. Should have let Crowley take it form him. Slipped his hand free.

He didn't.

Crowley pressed the cup to his lips. He let out a tiny whimper and Azren immediately cataloged the sound. His grip tightened, slender fingers pressing against Azren's, and he tilted the cup back.

There was a moment, an agonizing eternity before Crowley actually tasted the hot cocoa, and Azren wanted to pet his head, tell him he could do it, he was doing it, he was doing amazing really, so trusting, so good, and the feeling was so overwhelming and entirely foreign to him he might have run if his hand wasn't trapped between Crowley's and the cup.

Then Crowley tasted the chocolate and immediately broke into a wide grin. He laughed, dribbling a bit, "I knew it! I knew it was cocoa, you _bastard_."

"You're making a mess, darling."

Crowley had been wiping his chin with the back of his hand and stopped mid-motion, staring at Azren. It took him a moment to realize why. 'Darling' he'd said. Not 'dear'. It had sort of just slipped out.

The moment passed and Crowley sat back, taking the cup with him. He settled on some pillows that weren't there a moment before. "My prize," he said, holding up the cup.

Azren couldn't yet quite get his voice to work and simply nodded as he sipped straight from the thermos.

"S'your turn, angel."

"Oh. Uh. Hmm. Why did you call Eric '243'?"

"That's what number Eric they were. I started giving them numbers as we met, they like that I can tell the difference between them. I think I've met almost a thousand now."

"Hold on...there’s more than one Eric?"

"Christ, angel, _yes_."

"How can you tell?"

He shrugged, looking up at the night sky, "Just can. There’s little differences, sometimes there's bigger ones. Eric456 has no freckles on their face, 789's eyes are lighter brown than the rest, 248 has a slight lisp, 159's kind of an ass, 69 high-fives me every time."

"And you see...all of that? All those little details you see and remember it all?"

"S'not that hard. They're different people. It's kind of like, the stars y'know? From here they all look the same but I can tell the differences."

"You can tell from here?"

"Well, I've had practice."

"What does that mean?"

"It _means_ that you've well exceeded your turn and it is mine now."

"Fine."

"What's the 'z' stand for?"

"For heaven's sake!"

"I want to know!"

"You aren't going to let that go are you?"

"Nope. What's it stand for?"

"I already told you, it doesn't stand for anything. It's just a 'Z'. What a waste of a question."

"It's got to stand for something, it can't _just_ be a 'Z'."

"It can and it is. I thought it sounded good."

"Azren Z Fell. Azren...Zazren Fell."

"It does _not_ stand for Zazren! That's not even a--"

"Too late, you had your chance to pick something. Could've went with something cool, now you're stuck with Zazren."

"That's preposterous."

"Your turn, Zaz."

"Ugh."

"Zaaaz. Zazzie. Razzle Zazzle Zazren."

"Are you quite through?"

"Yeah I'm done, what's your question?"

"Why do wear that necklace all the time? Your fashion sense, if it can be called that--"

"Rude."

"Changes with the wind. But that shimmery, copper thing is a constant. Does it mean something?"

Crowley fell quiet. He drained the rest of his cup and sat up straight. "It's not a necklace, angel. Look at it. Really look." He pulled down the collar of shirt a bit and Azren glanced down.

It was some sort of large, clunky necklace. Multiple, almost jagged, geometric shapes connected together by...wait. He leaned forward. They weren't held together at all. They seemed to just float, no, he blinked, and whatever miracle or illusion magic was in effect dissipated. It wasn't a necklace at all. There were large, jagged shapes EMBEDDED into Crowley's skin. Fused there. And it wasn't copper. It was more like tarnished...gold.

Azren gasped.

It was his halo. Shards of his halo fused into his skin.

Crowley let go of his shirt.

"Do...do all demons have, I've never seen...I..."

"No, they don't. Most lost theirs when they fell, literally lost it, the pieces falling every which way. Some threw theirs into the sulfur. I," he cupped his hands over the shattered halo, "was holding mine. Or at least the pieces I could grab as I fell." He let his hands drop with a sigh, "I also had the unfortunate luck to land _in_ a sulfur pit. Melted the pieces to me."

"Oh..."

"Could've removed them I guess. Would've hurt but I mean, can't imagine it would've stood out against the sulfur and the falling and the breaking of the halo to begin with. Might've left a nasty scar though. I kept it cause...I'm not ashamed that I was an angel. I had a job and I was good at it. I just. Well, She has ways and they are mysterious I guess. For a while I almost regretted not removing it but over the years, I don't know, it’s a part of me. Was when I was an angel and still is now, just a little different." He ran a gentle fingertip over the pieces, gaze a little far off. "I'm a little different. When I see the other demons and their marks and the way they chose to embrace our circumstances...I’m glad I still have it. I'm glad it burned and melted and reshaped alongside me."

"I see,” Azren said in a low voice. “I...thank you. For sharing that with me."

He gave a half hearted shrug, fiddling with the lace pillow.

"What did you do?"

He froze.

"As an angel," Azren quickly added. "Not to...I didn't mean..." He didn't mean why did he fall. He wouldn't ask that. He couldn't ask that. It wasn't that he wasn't curious, he was. But, well it hardly mattered did it? Crowley had clearly come to terms with it, with who he was, and there wasn’t an answer that would change what happened, make it make sense to either of them, so why bother?

"Ah." He set the pillow aside and crawled over to Azren. When Crowley reached a hand out to his face he pulled back slightly. "Close your eyes?"

He heard the question beneath. _Do you trust me?_

Azren closed his eyes.

He felt fingertips soft under his chin. A bit of pressure. It seemed Crowley wanted him to tip his head back. A part of him tensed at the idea, exposing his throat like that. One slash of those fingers-turned-claws and he'd be discorporated.

He leaned his head back.

“Open them.”

He did. And he frowned. There was nothing there. Just the night sky and the— His head snapped forward to look at Crowley, "The stars? You made the stars?"

He lowered his hand, settling back on his haunches, "The ones that can be seen from Earth, yeah."

Azren looked up again. That was how Crowley could tell the difference between them all. He knew them. He'd _made_ them. "All of them?"

"Well, not _all_. There were others in the same department. But, yeah, kinda? I was _very_ good at it. Ones I didn't make from scratch myself I certainly had a hand in fine tuning and the like."

"You made the stars..."

"I'd say it's not like a hung the moon but..."

He was smiling but it was a shy, nervous thing and again Azren was overwhelmed with the urge to tell him how wonderful he was. He wanted to scoop him into his lap and hold him there while they looked at the stars. Have him tell him the story of each one.

“I do believe it's your turn."

"Do you regret not smiting me?"

"No." The answer came without him having to think on it. "Another waste of a question."

"Not a waste. Good to know. Your turn."

"Do you do this often? What we..." He didn't have an ending to that sentence, he didn't know what they were doing, what they were. But he knew it was _theirs_ , whatever it was.

"No. Never. Only you."

"Good."

Crowley swallowed.

"Your turn."

"What would you do if not this? If you didn't have to do these jobs?"

"If I wasn't an angel?"

"Could still be an angel just, what if you didn’t...work for Heaven?"

"I don’t know. I've truly never thought about it."

"Hmm." He couldn't say why but Crowley seemed...disappointed.

"And you? What would you do? I assume you _have_ thought about it."

"Oh have I. For starters I'd--"

The quiet sound of harps and some awful generic twinkling noises interrupted him. Azren swallowed a groan.

"Uh, your pants are singing, angel."

He removed the small flip phone from his pocket. But didn't answer it.

"Oh," Crowley said and sat back. Azren hadn't realized how close he'd crowded in as they'd whispered to one another and now he felt a loss with his absence. "Work?"

"Technically this device doesn't even function. Hasn't stopped Heaven from using it to contact me, though."

"Well I suppose you’re off then. Big bad avenging angel."

He took his time screwing the lid onto the thermos. He could have miracled it away. He didn't want to leave. The phone stopped ringing.

"Is it...odd if I say I'm a little envious of whomever you’re gonna go fight?"

"Would it help if I told you how I was going to discorporate you tonight?"

"How you were _hoping_ to discorporate me you mean."

Azren leaned in, “I was going to impale you on that bit of rebar.”

Crowley looked from him to the steel and back, "You were not!"

"I was."

"Just going to leave me here like that?"

"I wouldn't do that to you."

"Except you have."

"That was our first fight, before our arrangement. It doesn't count."

"Hmmph," he turned away.

Was he _pouting?_ He leaned closer, so close, too close. "Would it help," he whispered, "if I told you I was also disappointed?"

"Maybe." Crowley didn't turn to face him but he did smirk, "Looking forward to impaling me were you?"

"How else can I pin you down?" Azren didn't imagine the shudder that Crowley tried to fight. "Keep you from squirming away?"

He did turn to him then, and oh they were _close_. He could feel Crowley's breath against his lips when he spoke.

"I think we both know you _like_ when I squirm."

Azren was going to kiss him. He was going to grab him and push him to the floor and kiss him and give him a _reason_ to squirm. He was going to fill that promise made so many years ago and make him beg. He was going to taste those lips, learn what that tongue could do. He was going to count every freckle, map out every curve and angle, the dip of his clavicle, the raise of his buttocks. He was going to leave a mark on him, somewhere visible, so that everyone knew he was _his_ , every angel he fought, every demon he worked with, every human he passed on the street would know it. He was Azren’s.

The phone rang and he didn't do any of that.

Crowley turned away, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. "Go on then, have fun at work."

“Good night, darling."

He was treated to the sight of a content smile before he got up and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> There's actually no discorporation in this one! But you get a <3 for scrolling down here anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!! So sorry for the VERY unplanned hiatus, 2021 coming at me _hard_ tbh. If you'll notice though, I've added two new tags AND updated the chapter count <3  
> Thanks for reading & Happy Belated Valentine's Day!! <33

_2006_

Crowley spotted Azren at the other end of the park and headed over without thinking. It wasn’t Sunday, they weren’t working a job, he never ran into Azren in the wild, hadn’t even _seen_ him since the night at at the construction site.

He’d spent _a lot_ of time thinking about close Azren had gotten, how he whispered to him, what might have happened if he hadn’t gotten called to work. Crowley wasn’t much of an optimist but he knew lust when he saw it, and Azren had wanted to touch him. Kiss him, he hoped. Perhaps more.

But that was against the rules, that sort of…fraternizing. At least, on heaven’s side. Hell didn’t really care what a demon did so long as it resulted in sin and souls. Tempt an angel into lust? Into acting on carnal desires? Bonus points as far as hell was concerned. Gold star on your progress report. Free drink at the next company retreat. He didn’t know what heaven did to angels that transgressed, and there had been quite a few, over the centuries, if bragging demons were to be believed, but no one had Fallen since the war. So whatever heaven was doing to punish their angels, it wasn’t that.

Perhaps it was for the best nothing happened.

Crowley leaned against a nearby tree, watching Azren stand at the edge of the pond, feeding the ducks. He’d foregone his outer coat in the warm air, and if _that_ wasn’t sin enough. Crowley thought often about that first fight, how he’d come into the back room of the speakeasy, cocky as anything, rolling up his sleeves. Fuck, Crowley got weak in the knees just thinking about it.

Who was the tempter here, really?

Apparently done with the ducks, Azren dusted his hands and started down the path.

Crowley followed.

He didn’t know what heaven did to angels that misbehaved, that stepped out of line, and he wasn’t keen to find out. Azren would never act on it. Satan, he never expected the angel to reciprocate even an _interest,_ but he was sure it would never amount to more than a bit of flirting. That was alright.

They still had the work, the fights. And if Crowley took them as an opportunity to feel Azren against him, his hands on him, his voice in his ear, well. What harm was that?

The angel stopped, his attention on someone yelling and waving pamphlets. Crowley crept closer.

“Witches are among us! They must be stopped! You there with the ears! The cat ears! That’s the work of witchcraft!”

“Yeah?” the human in question shouted back, “and?”

“They will be the end of us! The end of humanity! Join the Witchfinder army! Protect yourselves and your family!”

Crowley slid up beside Azren, “that doesn’t bode well.”

“Oh! Crowley! Hello, dear. What doesn't? Oh, him?” Azren looked back at the hollering witchfinder, “I wouldn’t think too much on it.”

“No?”

“Humans are always raising a fuss about this sort of thing. Things they can’t fully explain or don’t understand. How long did it take for _science_ to really find its feet? For people to accept the shape of the earth?”

“Still some push back on that last one apparently.”

“Hmm. Are you working?”

“Nah, was just in the area.” He stole a sideways glance. “Was on my way to this bistro nearby.”

“Not the one that has those delicious little lemon squares?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh,” he said.

Crowley couldn’t quite read the slight downturn of his lips. Didn’t know how to interpret it.

“I was planning on having lunch there.”

“Oh,” Crowley echoed. Right. Not work. Not the never-spoken-of Sundays. “I can uh, I’ll go somewhere else.” He was a bit impressed at how well he spoke, heart in his throat and quickly sinking the way it was.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Azren said.

Crowley stared.

“Witches!” shouted the witchfinder.

Crowley licked his lips.

“You’re a demon.”

“I am.”

“I should probably keep an eye on you. Who knows what you’ll get up to otherwise? A well-trained angel such as myself ought to be around for any necessary thwarting.”

“Oooh. That so?”

“It is, indeed. However, seeing as I’ll be working my lunch, I expect seating with a view.”

“Pft, right, angel. I’ll get right on that.”

Azren turned and walked past him, leaning in just a bit as he did. “Good,” he said softly.

Crowley swallowed and squeezed his legs together. He’d hoped the tremble that had run through him the last time Azren did that had gone unnoticed. Apparently not.

He turned to see Azren settling in on one of the benches, shaking open a newspaper. “Off you go, dear,” he said without looking up. “I’ll be along shortly.”

He wanted to make a smart remark but it took all of his focus to get his legs working close to some approximation of normal. So he just let out a scoff he hoped was the right mix of disbelieving and offended, and loud enough to mask the snap of his fingers that cleared the second floor table with a view of the river for the rest of the afternoon.

_2011_

Azren watched the traffic below slowly creep along. He sometimes wasn't sure how he felt about the tall buildings that sliced into the sky. They were beautiful in a certain way. Creations of humans, tall and proud and glimmering. But they also blocked out the beauty of the sunset. The stars were dull and hidden in the face of all that man-made light.

The stars Crowley made, put there to be seen and appreciated.

“Mr. Fell?”

Azren looked over at the human beside him. A Mr… Carlisle? Or maybe it was Fairfax? He really couldn’t remember. He was supposed to be convincing the man to donate a sum of his substantial wealth to, well, _anyone_ , really. He had so much of it, he could sign a dozen checks with six zeroes on the end of each and not notice a dent. It was obscene really. Many assumed glutton had to do with food, there were always images of some rotund someone or other stuffing their faces. Which bothered Aziraphale for more than one reason, naturally. But no, glutton was _excess_. Taking and taking and taking more than you could ever possibly need to use. Dragons were gluttons. Oh sure, greed often went hand in hand, of course. As was evidenced by the fact that Azren had to _convince_ the man to share his wealth to help someone. Anyone. There was no need to specify ‘someone less fortunate’, they all were when you sat that high.

It was disgusting.

“So sorry, I was distracted a moment. Please, continue to tell me about your...rocket ship, was it?”

The man laughed, Azren swallowed an unseemly urge to punch him in the throat. He looked out at the skyline once more.

“Now, all we really need is--”

The sunset really was gorgeous, even as it peeked between skyscrapers.

Goodness this was a long dramatic pause.

“All you need is?” When the human didn’t respond Azren looked to him.

He stood, stock still, mouth hanging open.

“Mister...erm,” he really did not know his name. The man didn’t move. Azren looked out over the balcony, all the cars had stopped as well, all the sounds, a pigeon was frozen mid-flight. “What the devil?”

A shot rang out, deafening in the quiet, and Azren jerked as he was hit in the arm. It grazed him, the bullet hitting the wall opposite. He spun around and caught the gleam of a scope several rooftops over.

There was only one person who would be so utterly brazen as to _shoot_ him.

Azren jumped onto the balcony’s ledge, spread his wings, and took flight.

The rooftop was surrounded by a chain link fence. There were plants, vegetables, some kind of community garden. And there Crowley stood, grinning, a sniping rifle set up by his feet.

Azren landed and tucked his wings back into another plane. “You _shot_ me,”

Crowley shrugged, “You’re six thousand years old, you’ve never been shot before?”

“How very cowardly.”

“Is not. I didn’t discorporate you, just wanted to get your attention. Besides,” he ran his hands over his sides of his short black dress, “felt very la femme Nikita up here.” Azren noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes. He stood barefoot and for some reason, seeing Crowley without his mile-high stilettos or his boots or even those horrid pink trainers he sometimes wore to their Sunday coffee, it felt...intimate. He found himself staring more at the curve of his arches, the soft lines of his ankles, than the low cut neckline of the dress. Not that he _hadn't_ looked there, he had.

“I don’t know who that is, but I can assure you she didn’t make the mistake of shooting me.”

“Ooo so scary. What’re you gonna do about it, then?”

Azren closed the distance between them in a flash. He hadn’t healed the wound in his arm and it ached when he swung at Crowley. The two exchanged blows easily. Some landed, others blocked, parried, it was a fluid dance they had memorized. The steps in perfect sync, they would continue like that until it was clear someone _had_ to win because they still had a job to do, or one accidentally landed a hit, doing actual damage and the other went all in.

Azren caught Crowley's leg as he tried to kick him and spun, flinging him into the fence. Crowley bounced off of it slightly and Azren met him with a hand around his throat, the other grabbing a fistful of his hair, tilting his head back.

Crowley smirked, blood from his split lip trickling down his chin.

“It would be very easy,” Azren said, “even with this fence, to simply toss you over the side of the building.”

“No!” Crowley grabbed at Azren’s arm, holding on desperately. “Don’t! I’ll-I’ll forfeit!” He was scared. Genuinely scared.

“You’ve never forfeited a fight.”

“I will, I’ll do it. Just, don’t, angel,” his fingers dug in, “please.”

“I won’t.”

Crowley was shaking, fingers still scrambling at his arm, into the fabric. He turned his head slightly, looking toward the fence and a whimper escaped.

“Crowley. Crowley,” he let go of his hair, turning his grip into a caress, cradling the back of his head. The hand on his throat slacked to rest gently on his clavicle. Fingers light on the shards of his halo. “Crowley, _look at me_.”

He did. His eyes were large and terrified. Azren wanted to pull him in close but that wasn’t allowed, was it? This was work. This was professional. “I won’t,” he said. “Darling, I won’t. I promise.”

As soon as he said ‘darling’ Crowley’s frantic grip calmed a little. He was scared of heights. He was scared of falling. It had never occurred to Azren that was a possibility. What if he _had_ pushed him all those millenia ago? Would Crowley have ever talked to him the way he did at the speakeasy? Offered their arrangement? He never would have heard Crowley talk about tea or call him angel that first time. And with the war still relatively fresh? The damage he could have done to his poor demon.

The sound of Crowley sniffling snapped Azren’s attention back to him. He wasn’t sure what to say. What to do. How did they continue their fight from here? Should they? The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Crowley any further. Instead, his mind began to supply him with all the things he could do to make Crowley feel better. He wanted to hold him, he wanted to get him off the roof, away from the edge, he wanted to take him back to their cafe, get him some of that horrid coffee. He wanted to hold him. Each new idea felt like a revelation and not one he was at all prepared to face. He wanted to hold him.

Crowley looked up, met his gaze, and then looked away, eyes focused off to the side, just past him.

Azren wet his lips. Searched for what to say.

Crowley took in a deep breath, let it out slow. It sounded resigned. His shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“You’ve nothing to be--” Azren stopped short as he felt something brush against his legs. He looked down to see Crowley’s entire lower half had morphed into that of a snake and was quickly wrapping around him. “Crowley?” Already he was bound all the way up to his hips. Crowley still wasn’t looking at him. The thick coils around his legs began to tighten, constricting without mercy.

Azren pushed against the scales but it was no use.

Crowley squeezed.

He felt his hips shatter first. From there it was a cascade of broken bones all the way down to his feet. He arched back as he screamed and Crowley struck. He grabbed Azren by the shoulders and bit into his exposed throat.

The venom went in slow.

Azren gasped. Crowley pulled back, grip still tight on his legs and shoulders, and Azren noted the spatter of blood on his face. Surely it hadn’t been a trick? Crowley had been scared, genuinely scared.

His throat was closing and he couldn’t get the words out. His was losing feeling in his arms.

And then his answer came sauntering into his line of sight.

A woman clad all in red came around from behind him. “I had a feeling it was you. There’s maybe three celestials that can stop time.” She stood beside Crowley taking in the sight of Azren. “Hmm, pretty eyes.”

Crowley growled. It was a low thing but Azren could feel the vibration of it through his entire body.

She paced behind him, coming up on his other side. His fingers dug into Azren’s shoulders.

“Don’t suppose you want any help?”

He hissed. His jaw unhinged as he did, his mouth full of far more teeth than he had before, all sharp. He turned, pulling Azren with him, crushing him further, and raised up to tower over her. Azren couldn’t see her anymore, couldn’t turn his head. All he could see was Crowley. Blood spattered on his face. Scales trailing from his temples down over his cheeks and neck. His mouth opened wide, far, far wider than should be possible. So many teeth. His hair was longer, wilder, fanned out. Like the hood of a cobra.

His beautiful demon.

“Alright, alright, I get it. He’s all yours. Just start time up again will ya, I’ve got a hair appointment.”

Azren could just make out the sound of her heels receding. Crowley continued to stare after her, his tail pulsing as it loosened a fraction only to tighten once more, his claws buried deep in Azren’s shoulder. He was still growling.

He wanted to tell Crowley he understood. He knew why he attacked so suddenly, so viciously. Crowley must have spotted her and it would not have done for them to be found the way they were. He had to make it look good. Azren would have done the same. But his throat had all but closed and all he could manage was a faint wheeze.

Distantly, it occurred to him how very ferocious his demon was. How Crowley had overpowered him in a matter of seconds and yet, Azren was convinced, hadn’t even tapped into the full breadth of his power.

When it seemed Crowley was satisfied she was well on her way, he looked at Azren. He blinked once. Slowly. His fingers pulled from from his shoulders, coated in blood, and he wrapped around Azren once more. Another coil that covered his stomach. He settled behind him, his tail still doing that slow pulse around his legs. Crowley wrapped his arms around Azren, around his throat, pulling him close against him. He pressed a cheek to his, the scales cool to the touch.

He was still growling.

The last, mad thought Azren had before he discorporated was that it felt a lot like purring.

That Sunday Crowley was half an hour late to the cafe. Azren gave up pretending not to be watching the clock and simply left his pocket watch open on his knee. When Crowley did show up, he placed a small pastry box on the table in front of Azren and went over to his seat. Only he didn’t sit. He clutched his to-go cup and phone in one hand, and picked at a lose thread in the seam of the chair with the other.

“Is uh,” he cleared his throat, “is this seat taken?”

He seemed small and unsure in a way Azren had never seen before. He must think Azren upset with him for the way the fight had gone. “Whyever would I let someone sit in your seat? It’s yours.”

He nodded, but continued to pick at the thread.

“Crowley,” Azren said, “ _sit."_

He climbed over the arm of the chair and plopped down.

“Good,” Azren said. He couldn’t hold him, not the way he wanted, but the could wrap him securely in other ways. In his words, in phrases he knew pleased the demon. He lifted the lid to the box to find half a dozen small slices of cakes of all kinds. Chocolate of course, he could smell a hint of lemon from another, some kind of cheesecake, oh a slice of carrot cake, he rather liked that. Crowley even made sure it didn’t have raisins, he could tell. Just as he raised his hand to snap a small fork into existence, one appeared atop a delicate napkin far too fancy for the cafe itself. He looked up to see Crowley focused intently on his phone screen.

“Thank you, darling.”

“Ngk.”

This was different. It felt... Azren didn’t know how to describe how it felt. But he knew he wanted more of it. He wanted to share his sweets with Crowley. He wanted to feed him a forkful of each because he’d been so thoughtful and good and he deserved it. But he couldn’t do that.

Eventually, as Azren tucked into the cakes and exclaimed and wiggled and hummed, the tension in Crowley’s shoulders melted away and he relaxed into his seat.

It was work. It was professional.

_2015_

Azren flipped through the playbill, taking in the quiet hum of chatter below as people found their seats and got comfortable. He had a job to do at the theater but he saw no reason why he couldn’t take in the show first. It wasn’t as if a demon could get to them while they were on stage. Backstage perhaps but it’s hardly his fault if the other side doesn’t follow the proper steps for a job and skips their confrontation. Demons were sneaky that way.

Wily.

Incredibly flexible.

He smiled.

He never would have imagined that he and Crowley would be…whatever it was they were. Certainly not on the wall, not even when he suggested their arrangement. There was a familiarity with Crowley that he simply never had with anyone else. A comfortability. When they fought it was earnest and flirtatious and thrilling. And when they sat opposite one another in the quiet of the coffee shop, Crowley tapping away on his phone, Azren reading the paper, it was serene and relaxing and so many other things he simply didn’t have the words for because he’d never _experienced_ it before. But he wanted to. With Crowley he wanted to.

Azren was just about to miracle himself a glass of wine when he smelled something familiar; brimstone. A demon. He would have ignored it, content to focus on the play, but there was an underlying scent, just a hint. He wasn’t sure if it was a perfume, a cologne, shampoo even, whatever it was he recognized it. Not just a demon then, _his_ demon.

He went to the curtains that closed off his seating from the hall and peered through the space between them. He saw people walking past, on their way to the other box seats or the ramp that led to the mezzanine. There was a lull, the hall empty, and then the scent was right there as a flash of red hair and shimmering gold passed by.

Azren darted a hand out, grabbed his arm and pulled him through the curtains.

Crowley met him with an elbow to the jaw.

“Oh!” He said as Azren recoiled, “Angel!”

Azren let go of his arm, working his jaw.

“You can’t go grabbing people like that,” Crowley said, adjusting the shawl on his shoulders, “it’s indecent.”

“It’s early, even for you.”

“Early? Oh, you’re working?”

“In a few hours, after the play. Aren’t you? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“No. I’m here to see the play. I can have hobbies, Zazzie.”

He scoffed, “You just happen to be—” Azren stopped short. He’d been ready to settle into their back-and-forth, familiar territory, the flirting that neither would acknowledge as such, when something caught his eye.

There was a bruise on Crowley’s neck.

Anger flared through him. Someone had hurt him? Then he remembered that Crowley was a demon, had miracles at his fingertips just as Azren did, and if there was a mark on him it was because he _chose_ to leave it there. Clearly visible with his low-cut neckline. And a different sort of feeling settled in his chest. One he didn’t recognize at first as he’d only ever seen it on humans, never felt it himself.

Someone had left a mark on his demon. Someone that wasn’t _him_.

Crowley shifted, pulling his shawl up, covering himself. When Azren managed to tear his eyes away he looked up to see Crowley staring at the floor. He looked a bit ashamed. But why should he? As he said, he had hobbies, a life outside of their work. It wasn’t as if Azren hadn’t had his share of dalliances. And despite the way he felt, he had no claim over Crowley. He hadn’t even made his _want_ to claim known. He had no right to make Crowley shrink in on himself that way.

The lights pulsed, a low chime ringing out. The show was about to start.

“I’ll, uh. I’ll see ya around, angel. I should—”

“Stay.”

Crowley looked up, nervous eyes finding his.

“Stay. Unless…you’re meeting someone?”

He shook his head.

Azren snapped his fingers, replacing the three chairs that had been arranged there with two slightly larger, infinitely more comfortable ones. A small table between them with two glasses of wine.

Crowley looked from the seats to Azren and back, “Are you sure?” _Is this alright_ , laced between the syllables.

“I’m sure,” Azren said. _I want this_ , a part of him screamed. But it was buried far too deep, Crowley would never hear it.

They settled in their seats as the lights dimmed and Puck came running up from one vom, a fairy from the other.

Watching Crowley watch a play was a special sort of gift and Azren was glad they were sequestered away from the rest of the audience, as he didn’t like to share. It was like when they saw the fireworks. Azren didn’t think for a second this was Crowley’s first time seeing some rendition of the play but every reaction he had was so genuine and unfiltered. Somewhere between the first and second act Crowley slithered to the floor, folding his arms on the balcony’s ledge, resting a cheek to watch. His hair was long, longer than usual, and fell down to his mid back. Azren wanted to touch it. To play with the locks, feel them fall between his fingers, braid it.

He was already sitting forward on the edge of his seat, one hand reaching out when he realized what he was doing.

He didn’t stop.

Crowley took in a small breath, sharp and short, when Azren’s fingers brushed against his back as he ran them through his hair. He wanted Crowley to know. He needed Crowley to know. It should be his marks that Crowley wore on full display, no one else’s. He thought about how Crowley had crushed him on that rooftop, his coils tight around his broken bones, his arms wrapped around his chest and throat, claws digging in. He’d never felt so trapped, so consumed, so held and coveted and protected in his entire existence as he had in that moment. He wanted Crowley to know.

His fingers curled in, grabbing a fistful of Crowley’s hair, pulling his head back a bit, putting that long, wonderful neck on display.

Crowley let out a whimper, clawed hands digging into the wood of the balcony.

Azren let go. Let his fingers trail down and around, gentle over his jaw and down his throat. To his surprise Crowley flinched as if burned. He scurried away, off to the side, pressing his back against the wall. At some point his legs had morphed into his snake half.

“Crowley?”

He growled.

Azren moved to kneel in front of him, “Darling I—”

Crowley hissed, his eyes wide and terrified the way they had been on the rooftop. He scurried across the floor, nails digging in and leaving deep gouges as he dragged himself away. Before Azren could say anything further Crowley disappeared down into a portal in the ground, his tail whipping violently before slipping beneath.

Then the floor was whole once more.

Azren blinked.

He wasn’t sure what just happened. Had he touched the shards of his halo by accident? Did it hurt? He’d touched them on the rooftop and Crowley hadn’t reacted to it. He returned to his seat and spent the rest of the play going over the events, trying to ascertain what he did wrong. In the end he decided to ask Crowley when he saw him on Sunday. He needed to know. They hadn’t worked a job together, technically, but he hoped the demon would still show. Perhaps they could…talk. Figure it out. Put a name to things. Although if Crowley’s reaction was anything to go by, perhaps he wasn’t ready for that.

That was alright. Azren could wait. He could slow down.

It wasn’t work. It certainly wasn’t professional. But he wanted it more than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Today's discorporation comes via venom and constriction.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends! I'm on [ Ko-fi ](https://ko-fi.com/jaceevers) now! I had a patreon but it's not really my bag tbh. On ko-fi I'm able to post quick updates, like where I'm at on a chapter, or posting delays, without it getting lost the way it would on twitter or tumblr. I can also share snippets and sketches. It's all free to see, there's a couple things up there now and I've got plans to add more. So consider following me there for all kinds of updates and content.  
> OR  
> Yell with me on [ Twitter!](https://twitter.com/tfw_thevoid)  
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